On the Weather of Paper

Paper changes with the weather more than people think. I should know this by now, and yet I’m always a little surprised by how differently it behaves depending on where I’m working. I’ve been using paper for years, and for a whole mix of reasons I’ve spent much of that time moving back and forth between home and elsewhere.

Here in Los Angeles—November still blazingly sunny and dry—the paper gets crisp, less forgiving, almost brittle in my hands. In Nashville, where the air is rarely dry and always carrying a trace of moisture, the same paper softens, loosens, opens. And each time I switch locations, I have to relearn how to work with it.

If I’ve been in Nashville for a long stretch, I forget the feel of the paper I rely on for a particular series. I wander, experiment, push, make mistakes—so many mistakes—trying to find my footing again. I relearn the rhythm, the small decisions, the internal state that lets the work flow. And of course, just when I finally get it right, when everything is smooth again, it’s time to leave for weeks.

Then I start over in the next place. A different ambiance, different air, different memories in the walls. Another little cycle of mastery and unmaking. I adapt, adjust, undo, rebuild—until I return to Los Angeles and begin the whole process again.